


Pokerface

by disco_lemonade



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, Dominatrix, F/M, Murder, Orgasm Denial, Revenge, Role Reversal, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 22:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17333744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disco_lemonade/pseuds/disco_lemonade
Summary: In an alternate universe where Katniss won the games alone and Seneca Crane was never assassinated for the nightlock snafu, Katniss is forced to be a Capitol dominatrix and Seneca is one of her most adoring customers. One night, however, things go just a little too far, changing both of their fates forever.





	Pokerface

**Author's Note:**

> A dark story, and very much beyond my usual comfort zone with writing. My imagination knows no bounds when it comes to all the different ways this crackship could play out, but this scenario is definitely the darkest. If you enjoy the ship, check out my playlist on 8tracks:

_“You cannot change the cards you’re dealt, just how you play the hand.” -Randy Pausch_

-o-o-o-o-

Seneca could hear screams from within the walls.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to manage the erection pressing against his tailored pants. He watched the grandfather clock in the parlor corner, its golden pendulum slapping off each precious second. He knew that waiting was part of the game. His cock got harder.

The door opened, and he adjusted himself again, as a man walked out of the room. The gray-haired man’s face was a flushed red, his tie somewhat crooked. He avoided eye contact with Seneca, as was custom.

“Thank you again, Ms. Everdeen,” he said, in a throaty voice ravaged by screaming. She said nothing. He shuffled quickly, too quickly, across the parlor.

“Slower, Harold,” Katniss Everdeen commanded. Harold flailed and froze, like a man hit by an arrow, at the sound of her hiss. He walked the rest of the way out with his head hung low, dragging his feet. Dragging his feet the way she liked. Several pendulum swings went by before the door creaked shut behind him.

Katniss stood patiently in the doorway of her boudoir, watching each of Harold’s steps with scrutiny. Seneca held his breath, his insides pulsing at the sight of her sinewy folded arms, her petite waist shoved into a jet black leather corset. A golden mockingjay charm rested gently upon the ample bosom that rose and fell with her careful, metered breaths. Slowly, she turned her head, and smiled as her gray eyes rested menacingly on Seneca.

Katniss always forced her clients to wait, to watch, as another man left and squirmed on his slow, obligatory walk of shame. Shame was the game, and she was the master. Powerful men came to her to feel weak, to take their shame and live it out in a sexually-charged game.

He burned beneath her demanding gaze.

“May I enter, Ms. Everdeen?” Seneca breathed, fighting to find his voice.

She considered him for a moment. The room was stuffy as he waited. Stuffy, and strangely loud, for a room supposedly silent: the whooshing grandfather pendulum, the old baseboards creaking, Katniss’s corseted lungs. A sinister feeling inside of him lit up as he contemplated the genius of the parlor’s design. Every sound, every detail, crafted to make him anxious and afraid and excited. The overture to a thrilling and dangerous performance.

“Get inside,” she commanded, and Seneca obeyed with a readiness he rarely applied to anything in actual life.

She brought him into her four walls of paneled wood, simplistic in its decor. Thin white curtains rippled gently in the breeze. Seneca could hear the wailing business of the Capitol through the open window, but he understood that everything else about the small room was meant to evoke the barren, rustic memories of District Twelve. It was part of the fantasy that she sold: come into her world, and savor the savage ways of the outermost District.

Too fast, he took a seat in the wooden chair that was his favorite.

“Did I say you could sit down?” she barked, loud but emotionless.

He hadn’t made the mistake on purpose, but the sound of her reproach made him glad he had. He liked it so much he didn’t jump up at once. He needed to be dealt a firmer hand.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Everdeen,” he said, his heart pounding. “It just seemed so natural. All I’ve thought about all day is coming back here, being with you...”

She pressed a calloused finger to his dry lips. Her eyes were cold. “You aren’t with me, Mr. Crane. No matter how close your body is to mine, you are never actually with me, because I’m not really here. I’m a shell. A Capitol puppet. The real me is something you’ll never see.”

He felt chills. The role she played was always the sullen woman, the empty mistress. But the way she spoke tonight... it felt slightly different. It felt true.

The finger at his lips was reinforced by an entire hand, stifling his breath and any attempts to speak. With her free hand she clutched a fistful of silk shirt. She pulled him to his feet, tightening the collar of his shirt around his throat.

“No rest tonight, Seneca,” she purred, and that flash of honesty was gone. She resumed her performance. “You’ve been bad today, haven’t you? How bad have you been?”

Seneca attempted a reply, but it was muffled by her hand. The sensation of his voice, buried in the flesh of her strong hands, gave him a rush.

Katniss tightened her grip; tighter than usual, Seneca thought idly. “You killed children today, didn’t you?”

Furiously, fearful and excited at the same time, Seneca nodded. In an instant, he felt his mouth freed as she used the backside of her hand to slap his face.

“And are you ashamed?”

And that was the funny thing, thought Seneca. That was the thing that made him long for Katniss and her strange therapy so desperately.

“No,” he answered, smiling. “I’m not. In fact, I’m proud. This new Arena… it’s a thing of beauty. Today’s test subject casualties proved that beyond a doubt to the Board of Directors.” She watched him with dead eyes. He wanted to get her angry, but she was oh so good at holding out. He pressed. “Just wait until we get actual Tributes in there; no more test runs. It makes the Arena you won look like a cheesy soap opera; I may even find myself a new favorite Victor when it’s all said and done.”

She slapped her open hand across his face once more, her nostrils flared. He wanted her to lean closer, so he could feel her raging breath on his face. But she wouldn’t lean, she wouldn’t bend, she wouldn’t break… she wouldn’t do anything until you were absolutely dying for it. She was a master of her craft, just as he was a master of his. In the six years since she won the Hunger Games and taken up involuntarily residence in the Capitol at his personal behest, he had come to adore her for it.

“You insolent, smug capitalist,” she purred. She clutched his jaw in her calloused hunter’s hands, forcing his mouth to open and gape. “You will never find anyone else like me.”

He felt his heartbeat pick up tempo, his living eyes gazing into her emptiness. He nodded dumbly.

“Say it, Seneca,” she hissed, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his cheeks. “I want to hear you say it.”

He locked his gaze with hers, trembling in fear and ecstasy. “I’ll never find anyone like you,” he confessed, the words distorted by her death grip.

She tightened and twisted her grasp. “And?”

She leaned, finally, just a few delicious inches closer. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt with unspeakable patience. “What else have you been taught, Mr. Crane?”

Even with his mouth contorted, he managed a lewd and satisfied smile. “And a pampered murderous cunt like me doesn’t deserve to have you.”

She moved in close and rewarded him with a sharp nip at his earlobe. “Good boy. But you shouldn’t need so much prompting. The scent of today’s innocent blood must have made you cocky.” She spanked the building erection in his pants, causing him to gasp in pain. “I’m going to have to educate you all over again.”

Seneca took deep, steady breaths to recover from the slap to his cock. Katniss walked across the room and opened the heirloom cedar chiffonier, an authentic relic from the time-capsuled world of District 12. After six years of being her client, her loveslave, her biggest patron, he thought he knew all the toys she kept in there. He was skilled at performative torture in his own line of work, but he could hardly have believed that he would learn so much from one of his own victims.

She came back with rope, nothing sexy or ornate. Scratchy, straw-colored, frayed farmhand rope.

“You’ll scratch up my new silk,” he whined.

Katniss smiled a rare smile. She reached into the crease between her breasts and pulled out a switchblade, which she opened with a swift click.

“That’s a new toy.”

“Shut up.”

His breath stopped cold in his lungs for a fleeting moment when she arched back her arm and dropped the dagger right toward his spine. It was good that he felt afraid; the Gamemaker in him was all too aware that Katniss and the other Capitol fuckdolls would never be allowed to own anything that could actually harm a citizen. He loved Katniss’ den because it was so beautifully constructed that it could let him taste the sweet taste of fear, even if it was an expensive illusion.

Stop overthinking it and play the game, he scolded himself. He heard the ripping of expensive fabric and felt her knuckles graze the bare skin of his back as she ripped open the slash she’d made in his shirt. In moments she had cut and torn the whole thing off of him, throwing it to the hardwood floor. Buttons be damned.

“Don’t you worry, my pretty Capitol prince,” Katniss teased in her husky voice. “There are dozens of half-starved women and children in District Eight already hard at work making your new wardrobe.”

“Well, at least two less after yesterday’s Reaping,” he couldn’t help but clip back. He took another slap to the face for that one, this time with the heavy rope that Katniss clutched in her hands. He was excited by the sting and by the rash he felt on his face. He liked for their love to leave a mark; it was easily repaired by Capitol aesthetic remedies, after all. But for a moment even the pain couldn’t get him out of his own head. There was something about her comment- something beyond their usual master-servant role reversal play. It felt oddly, poignantly political. Surely she couldn’t know the truth about District Eight, the riots and strikes that had been erupting? Those were well-covered up by the government. He was simply being paranoid.

“Sit,” she commanded, and he obeyed.

She tied a knot at the end of her rope and anchored it around the chair, then started wrapping it tight around his bare torso. So tight that he could feel its threads rub straight through the skin.

“Did you get a chance to see the Reaping, Ms. Everdeen?” he asked conversationally, while she bound him. He knew that the more arrogant and heartless he behaved, the more treacherous and wonderful his punishments. “I’ll miss you when you’re required to attend to your Mentoring duties.”

“I’ll miss you like an asshole on my elbow,” she answered, tying off the rope. Her body was so close against him that he could feel her soaked pelvis on his bleeding skin; he could smell the pheromones of the wetness that belied her heartless dismissal. He felt nervous and excited as he realized, despite her usual measured indifference, Katniss Everdeen was aroused.

He felt spiderwebs of pleasure criss-cross through the nerves of his groin, back, and stomach, as her calloused hands landed on the zipper of his trousers. She unhinged each zipper tooth, and had her fingers wrapped around his cock in a single motion.

“Oh, Katniss,” he murmured, stumbling across the taboo of speaking her true name. “I thought there were rules.”

Her hand moved firmly but gently in the trench between his balls and up his swollen shaft, caressing and enticing, but in a swift gesture, she had twisted the fabric of his pants around her hand and shoved them down toward his knees abruptly.

She dropped her mouth to his lap, flicking her tongue against his member in a tease, tracing her lips along his thigh, where she gave him a gentle nibble.

She rose, and brought her eyes to him. “I make the rules,” she said, stroking him with one hand as she removed her garter belt with the other. It joined his destroyed pile of silk. She move her bare cunt right toward him, pressing against his exposed penis. “I say what goes. Now get it as hard as you can for me.”

If he was as skilled as her, he would have refused just to tease her. Just to watch her wait and ache. But he was not as strong and as practiced as the harlot of District 12. He was instantly rigid, pulsing, red with want. He came to Katniss for the games, for the torture and mindfuckery, but tonight he felt the promise of something else. Something that was almost… real. 

It would have been more her usual game to make him wait; to slap his face when he begged for it, and oh, he loved to beg for it. But instead she surprised him by mounting him immediately, welcoming his roaring erection into her dripping cunt, clutching his impeccably-styled hairdo like the reins of a trained pony. He, and perhaps she, too, was taken by such surprise by this blasphemous disregard for protocol. 

She moaned tenderly as she rode him, deep and slow, and Seneca lost his senses for a moment, because there was never anything tender about Katniss Everdeen. He felt pure, beautiful heat course through him as their flesh joined, and he inevitably felt the harshest, ice-sharp disappointment when she leapt off of him suddenly and retreated to the corner of the room.

He was left panting, bewildered, watching while Katniss sulked at the window. She picked up a corncob pipe from the cedar end table. She opened a drawer with her other hand and took her time, digging to procure a paper sack of loose tobacco. She packed a bowl and lit it with a match. It was so idyllic, so District 12 of her. He pretended that the light pouring through the window onto her earthy skin was bright Appalachian moonlight, and not the harsh electric lights of the Capitol.

Not that he had ever travelled to the outer districts. But he liked to believe he could picture it. Each puff she took was slow and contemplative. Deliberate. Torturous. Making him wait. Making him remember that he might own her on a numbered ledger somewhere, but she would never actually be his.

There were rules for a reason. From the most banal party etiquette to the most ritual practice of District submission, Panem was built on rules and ceremony. He was entitled to his games, Hunger or otherwise, but there was simply no room for unhinged intercourse with a Victor. They were thralls, not equals, and even in games of sexual deviancy, the power dynamic could never truly go unchallenged. She was the dominatrix, but he was the master, and that hierarchy could never be forgotten. It would undermine everything he stood for.

It could fool his senses, make him forget who belonged where. Sex was meant to be a game of power, not of sentiment.

He felt his soul writhe in agony, then, when she put down her pipe and looked over her shoulder at him with pouting gray eyes. How could he feel anything but sentiment when she looked at him like that? 

She was watching him carefully, sizing him up, biting her lip in an uncharacteristically vulnerable way. “I want to see you as you really are, murderer,” she said lowly. Her eyes shifted almost imperceptibly to the various corners of the room, where cameras and security devices were hidden. “Wouldn’t that be something? To show each other the truth for once. We could pretend to be real lovers, for just a few minutes.”

His heart stopped for a moment as he read her meaning. She wanted to play, unsupervised. To cut the feed linked to the brothel security keepers, so that they could do whatever it was people did when no one was watching. It could be done pretty easily, with just the slightest disruption of a video cable. It was done all the time, by men who had desires so dark that they occasionally required a few moments of privacy. The kind of rule that was meant to be broken.

Just for a few minutes, of course. A few minutes of interrupted feed would go unnoticed by the keepers, before they came up to investigate. Katniss knew this, clearly. Knew the rules well enough to know how to break them.

He struggled against the rope, rocking the wooden chair beneath him, and Katniss laughed at his desperation. He felt a flush of heat roll through his body at the sound of her laughter. Throaty, merciless, tantalizing. She pulled the knife from out of her gleaming breasts once again, flicking it around in an idle figure eight motion, judging him carefully.

“If I set you free, what will you do?” She contemplated. “You think you could really handle a taste of the real me? If it wasn’t just a game, what would you want from me?”

She swung the knife, slicing through all the coils of the rope at once. Such a sharp blade.

Without a word, Seneca wandered idly to the corner of the room. He leaned against the wall for a moment, as if merely gathering his thoughts. His hands quickly and expertly located a critical cord in the video feed, and unscrewed it, all hidden behind his back.

The instant he knew there were no eyes watching, he returned to her and fell at his knees before her. Without hesitation, he placed his mouth on the glistening lips of her vulva, kissing deeply. Her course, curled bush rubbed against his beard as he lapped up her sweetness, which he found exciting. Capitol women tended to be shaved and dyed and reshaped in all manner of inhuman ways, but Katniss was as untouched as wilderness.

Katniss leaned her bare buttocks against the window pain, leaning into him, grinding herself greedily against Seneca’s mouth. She was a master of sex, but was so rarely able to let anyone touch her in a way that gave her actual pleasure. In her position, she couldn’t afford to be reserved. A few minutes of unmonitored feed would have to be used wisely if she was going to get everything she wanted out of it.

She straddled his lips until she had practically locked his face between her thighs. With just a little more pressure, she could have suffocated him. If she had wanted.

Instead, she pulled back her arm and slapped him hard against the face.

“Monster,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he answered, wiping her wetness from his lips.

She struck him again. “Killer.”

“Yes.”

She arched back her arm a third time, and this time swung a full-fisted punch to his jaw. It knocked him to the floor. For a moment he saw stars.

And then she smothered his mouth with hers, kissing desperately, panting, skin on fire.

“Maybe you’d like to hurt me for a change?” she purred. “I know how you like to cause pain.”

“Yes,” he breathed, standing up, his height towering over her. He shoved her, and shoved her again. Against the wall, into the shadows of the room. He fumbled for a moment, then, with the hooks and intricate lacings of her corset. Katniss smiled at him, condescendingly, before unsheathing the switchblade once more. Seneca returned the grin, taking the weapon from her and abruptly spinning her, pinning her chest against the wall. He gripped the top of her corset and sliced the knife down each layer of black lace that held it in place. It fell to the floor with a thud.

Seneca yanked her long braid to turn her towards him once again. He visibly swooned at the sight of her plump breasts, pale in the faux moonlight. He splayed his fingers wide to try and clutch the fullness of each breast in each hand. She shuddered as his fingertips grazed the dark pink of her areola, slowly closing his knuckles around the nipple. Between two knuckles he squeezed and twisted, watching her face carefully.

This was her domain, truly, and he felt a flutter of nervousness as he realized she may be difficult to impress. Amazing, that he could be so intimidated by someone so beneath him. It reminded him of the rush he felt during her first judging, when her arrow had whizzed centimeters from his face. She was weak, but she exuded so much power.

He bent his mouth to suck her nipple, then bit down, tasting blood.

When he lifted his face, meeting her gray eyes in search of approval, her glorious laugh rang out again.

“What do you think I am, some Capitol socialite? You’ll have to do better than that.”

Cheeks flushed in fury, he yanked free his snakeskin belt, and kicked his drooping trousers all the way to the floor with the rest of their clothes. He grabbed her by the throat to hold her in place, back against the wall, while he slapped the belt down across her chest. She yelped a tiny whimper, while Seneca inspected the pulsing red mark his belt left behind.

“Does it hurt your tits, huh?” he growled like an animal.

“It doesn’t have the same effect on me as you,” she said, lifting one arm and easing prying his hand from her throat, and using the other to tear the belt from his hands. She gave the floor a whiplike slap, and Seneca jumped. “You need pain because you live a life where you never experience anything real. For me this is nothing. You have no idea the pain I can withstand.”

She whipped the belt again, signaling the end of his momentary dominance. He preferred her calling the shots, in any case.

She turned around again, leaning against the wall. “Now you’re going to grab my waist and fuck me- and you’d better not disappoint me.”

He primed himself for the challenge, wrapping his arms around her tawny torso, a delicate gesture of submission even as he thrust himself inside her. He felt passion, coursing red through his veins, but also adoration. As she instructed him on where to put it, how to maneuver it the way she wanted, the chemicals coursing through his brain as he neared his climax told him that this was as good as life could get. These forbidden feelings for his forbidden girl.

“Stop,” she commanded, and for a moment he woke from his reverie. He heard the city noises and wondered if it was time to stop, if their window of privacy had ended.

“On the floor,” was her next command. “I need to be on top of you.”

Reverie returned, flooding him with joy and obedience. He lay flat on the hardwood floor and let Katniss position herself at the angle she preferred, docile and accommodating as she rode her hips hard against his erection. She slammed against him expertly, smashing her g spot while grazing her clit at the base of his shaft. He waited, enchanted, as she worked her way to an orgasm.

And when she finished he knew because her face contorted then fell slack with release, her mouth hanging open as she moaned and heaved for breath. He wanted to come right then, right inside her, unprotected consequences be damned.

But she was too smart for that. She jumped off his dick at just the right moment, leaving him shocked and just short of release.

She laid beside him, panting, lost in a daze. Her braid was unraveled, stray locks strewn across her open mouth. He would have to wait to get his. But waiting was the best part of the game.

Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair, tucking errant strands behind her ear. There was something burning inside him, something he felt he had to release from his lips before she opened her eyes, and certainly before they reconnected the security feed.

“I love you,” he whispered. The most blasphemous and traitorous crime a Capitolite could commit.

Katniss kept her eyes closed, wrinkling her nose. “Love?” She repeated.

Seneca’s heart was pounding, but bravely, he continued. “I wanted to change the rules for you. In your Games. I did everything in my power to keep you. I love you. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you.”

She stirred and opened her eyes at this. She climbed back on top of him, smiling. His dick pulsed with blood. He was ready for his turn to explode.

“Love me?” Katniss repeated. She was within reach of the shredded rope from their earlier play, and grabbed a remnant of the scratchy cord to tie his wrists together. “I wonder what love could possibly mean to a monster like you.” She pulled tight on the rope; he was immobilized. Powerless. He loved it. “Love me? You don’t even think of me until it conveniences you. If you were really so obsessed with me, you might have noticed something about the names of your most recent reaping. You would have known that Primrose from District 12 had a familiar name- Everdeen.”

“Your sister,” Seneca breathed. “The one you volunteered for so many years ago. I can’t believe I didn’t realize.”

Katniss snorted. “Of course not. If it isn’t part of your design, you game makers don’t notice anything. She’s seventeen. So close. She was almost out. She was almost free. But I guess no one in the districts is ever really free, right? Even the Victors... especially the Victors, all we are is slaves.”

“I can protect her, you know,” said Seneca. “I can rig the game. Your sister could join you here, in the Capitol.”

Katniss hardened eyes twinkled with a hint of tears. “You would do that for me?”

As he nodded furiously, sincerely, that throaty laugh escaped her lips once more. Another remnant toy was within reach on the other side of him: the knife. She reached for it, and clutched it in her hand, idle figure eight motion just inches in front of her face. His hands were bound, his body crushed beneath the force of her hips.

“Are you ready, dear Seneca? Are you ready to get yours?” He nodded desperately, whimpering like a dog. She bucked her hips while swinging down the knife, slashing it across his bare chest, leaving a trail of glistening red.

He screamed, because it hurt. A lot. Not the fabricated pain of Capitol sex parlor tricks, but real, unbearable pain. He shuddered as he saw the torn flesh of his torso, and was astonished. He was astonished that with all his cunning, with all his experience in games, that was the very first moment he had bothered to consider that he was being set up.

“My dear old mentor Haymitch was able to smuggle me this new toy,” she explained, shoving her hand over his throat to muffle any more screams. He would sound different, now that he understood he was in actual danger. “I was supposed to wait until the Games were underway, until Plutarch gave us the signal, but as soon as I saw the Reaping… well, let’s just say things suddenly got very personal.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. Seneca trembled beneath her weight. “The rebels in District 8 are on the march. Our allies in District 13 are ready to receive us. The Victors and Mentors are ready to turn against you. When will you Capitol fools learn? You can’t hold us down forever.”

She came in close to his face, gritting her teeth as she muttered the last words he would ever hear, “if we burn, then you burn with us.”

She felt another of his screams vibrate against her palm, then quickly dissipate as she slashed the sharp blade across his throat. A blanket of red poured from the dead neck of Seneca crane, red as berries, and coated her hands.

The door burst open the next instant and Haymitch hurried inside. 

“Nice shootin, sweetheart,” he murmured as she rose to meet him. He opened a coat that she quickly stepped into and wrapped around her naked body. She was mesmerized, breathing hard, as she stared at the man she had killed. “Let’s get moving, eh? The clomping of Peacemaker boots should be coming any minute now.”

She nodded, absentmindedly taking hold of a pistol that Haymitch placed in her hands. She ran out of the bedroom, past the thumping grandfather clock, leaving her prison behind.

Her revolution had begun.


End file.
